


Egads

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Gives Oral Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gods, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Possession, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 11:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15411654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Zeus is feeling frisky again and deems you as worth his time. Better still, Dean looks a perfect candidate to help there.  Hera, his wife, catches on and tries to intervene.





	Egads

**Author's Note:**

> Requested very graciously by @wheeezerr in reference to this post (tagging @imagining-supernatural and @theangelkrysta as requested). This popped up all sorts of issues of consent for me, obviously. I did, in one way, imagine them road tripping across the country, windswept and laughing maniacally, but the context of the Gods being lovers still distracted me, so that’s the part I tackled.
> 
> My constant thanks to @mrswhozeewhatsis for her patient and generous beta work.

“What is this?”  You’re crossing paths with Dean on the way to the bathrooms, just as he’s leaving the mens’.  “It looks like a confessional.”

Dean watches you pull back a crimson curtain for a small, square nook tucked away between the bathrooms and the main space.  “Uh, I think it was a control booth or something.  Up here used to be a stage,” he guesses.

“Oh my god, yeah, the stairs.”  You mean the stairs from the great, big, open table area to where you are now.  You’re both hot with liquor, enjoying a quiet night out.  There aren’t enough people around for flirting and the three of you have been sassing pool for an hour.  “Jeez, how many folk you think get caught in here?”

“What, confessing?” he asks, poking his head past you to see how small it is.  “Not more than one and a half.”

“Not even for a you know, say a little prayer?” You’re chest to chest, pretending it’s not electric to be this close.

“A few Hail Marys?”

“Yeah, give a little thanks,” you smirk, “a few ‘come hithers.’”

Dean starts giggling. “Yeah, I reckon I could get a knee down in there,” he shrugs as though he’s not blushing.  “You like a penitent man, huh?”

Hoo Lordy, you can smell his salt from here.  “Sure do,” you grin, and try to talk while you hold your breath.  “I like to hear a man sin.”

“What the hell is that?” says Sam, appearing out of nowhere, wobbly with drink and lifting the curtain with a finger.  “Looks like a fuck booth.”

“It is,” sighs Dean.  “That’s exactly what it’s there for.  They installed a fucking booth.”

Sam frowns.  “I seriously doubt that’s it’s actual main purpose.”

“I need the bathroom,” you declare and exit up stage.

“Me too,” says Sam.  The three of you split and it’s as though it never happened.

…  …

Zeus had been good for so long.  Lifetimes ago, he had used shame to trick Hera and her giving heart.  He got what he wanted from her, and from every other conquest he’d pursued, breaking her heart every time.  She was right to be jealous, and Zeus felt it was fair that she react so tempestuously.  Of course, he would have remorse, for a time, but it always had a season, and spring was due.

So, so many women tempted him.  Centuries only brought more choice, which proved to be the only thing that really slowed him down.  More and more people, more time, more fruit.  Recently, he’d noticed you with your strength, and integrity, but mostly he noticed your womanly power.

Warriors, heavy and focused, cut and hewn.  _By the Sun_ , few things lured him more. For all the adoration he had for Hera, the steadfast battle in her that he loved to stoke, it was the women of earth that gave him fuel.  They were the muses of his indulgence.

Zeus chose you, and for his disguise, he chose well.

…  …

“This is the weirdest job ever.  Since when did Crowley ever think we were geologists?” grumbles Dean. “Hey, Sammy-” he picks up a few rocks, “do you love this rock, or  _this_  one.  See how it’s such a rock?  But this one, it’s a  _rock_.”

“Archeologists, I think.  And Dean, you probably shouldn’t be handling those.”

“Right.  Dunno where they’ve been,” he mutters, eyeing off the rows of rocks.  “Except, you know,  _on earth.  Forever._   All look the fuckin’ same.  Wait, I’m wrong: this has a number.”

Dean shows the bottom of his to Sam, who notices another label on the rim of a wooden box containing a great boulder.  Then Sam remembers a book near the door and goes back to see what it says.  Sure enough, it’s a ledger of everything in the room.  “Okay, so what you’ve got there is a stone from the Temple of Zeus, and another from the Temple of Hera.”

“Aw, bet she’s delighted.”  Dean smiles at the rocks in his hands and makes kissy noises as he taps them together.

“Wait, you know the story of Zeus and Hera?”  Sam carries the ledger around the room, now looking for No.678 - from the tomb of Jesus.

“A little.  I know he was a fuck-happy, selfish asshole.”  Dean gives up pretending to care about a few dozen rocks in different shades of rock.  “This is ridiculous.  As if anyone really knows which rock is which!”

Sam agrees, but on a hunch he pulls out an angel blade and holds it to the stone they’ve sought.  Upon contact, it rings, high and hot.  All the eyebrows go up.

“Okeydokey,” says Dean.  “That’s convincing.”

Sam pockets the blade and uses a cloth to bag the tomb rock.  “I don’t think we need anything else here.  Why haven’t you put that back?”  He gives an upward nod at the rock Dean still holds, from Zeus’ temple.

‘I dunno Sammy, it just says  _rock_  to me, you know?  I think it’s the one.”  Dean thunks it back in its spot and sucks a breath at the nick it makes in the palm of his hand.  He peers at the scratch, already beading red, and scowls at the rock.  “Asshole.”

…  …

Dean asks Sam to drive them home, saying his short nights have caught up with him.  He tucks himself into the corner of the car and spares some momentary satisfaction for being able to leverage Crowley for this stupid artefact, getting on with things as usual.  Right now, though, you’re back at the bunker, waiting for them, and on these drives home he usually pretends you’ll have tried baking something, or made something special.  Maybe you’ll be waiting for him, or come find him to ask how they went, put your hands on his waist or belly when you smile.  Maybe this time you’ll be sad Sam won’t leave soon enough so you can hang out together.  Maybe you’ll wear something form-fitting while you busy yourself; maybe you’ll be wearing a big ol’ sweater and feel cuddly.  It changes every time.

On this drive, however, he’s thinking of a few nights ago. After dinner, as the two of you put everything away, it got a bit crowded around the fridge door and between you shelving jars and him reaching over your head there was this moment you were inside his arms, just as he closed the door.  “Woop-” “Hey-” “Rude-” “Me?” You’d looked around his chest and neck and he was so close he couldn’t see you properly.  You stepped back, almost back to the door as though you might pull his shirt front and steal a bar-brewed one-night-stand moment right there, like you might pretend there’s a crimson curtain hiding you.  

You watched him follow you, drew him closer than ever with your gaze, and Dean relives this little moment, parenthetical to all else, quietly rebellious, plays it over and over again to get more time out of it.

He saw your face tilt up, as if to ask him what’s happening, but your eyes were on his lips, so he leaned in and put them to yours.  And you’d held on, nearly pulled him back into the half-foot between you and the fridge.  His hands pressed against the cool surface while the rest of him burned.  You’d nudged the kiss up and down, like a little duck-dive, he remembers, made him tip into it and step forward, kicking your shoe.  Your arms folded up behind him, pressing his body to yours, and he let his weight lean into you.  The more he recalls it, the more he’s sure, you shifted so that the flies of your jeans met and nudged, and you’d sucked a sharp breath, grabbing at him.  Dean thinks maybe he moaned a bit, like  _Yeah_ , or  _Damn_ , because what he clearly remembers is the print of your form against his - thighs, belly, bust and chin - and how he’d rolled it like he wanted to ink it onto himself, pushed the breath out of your body to get it.

Sounds of Sam’s approach broke it up, and you both looked around like you’d dropped a spoon. But that evening, Dean lifted up his sleep shirt to see just how red those fingernail marks were over his kidneys and his dimples kept him up for an hour.  He falls asleep the same way in the car.

When Dean wakes, he’s looking at the inside of the garage, but he still has those images in his mind.  He can’t seem to shake them, even though he’d prefer to be present.  He looks over his shoulder, checking the backseat, then brushes at his collar, his shoulder, but there’s nothing there.  Down the corridors, he looks behind himself several times, but when he gets to the kitchen, you’re literally pulling a pie out of the oven.  It makes Dean pause and think of pinching himself.  Wishing has never worked out so well.

“You actually baked?” He’s amazed.

“I did!” You lean a hand on the benchtop and sling the tea towel over a shoulder, proud as punch.  You weren’t ready for Dean to appear, but cover it as well as ever, breathing deep to occupy your heart.  He’s just wearing a Henley shirt and jeans, all soft and domestic, and his arms look made to be handled.  All that lithe neck and strong breadth.

“You’ve never baked before!”  Dean strides across the room to lean over the pie and take in the fragrant steam.  “Oh,  _yeah_.”

“Yeah?  Good.”  Now you wished you  _had_  tried baking before.  He looks at you like you’re made of rainbows and gold, and you hold your breath, but with nothing to say he grins and deflates so you do, too.  

Some words occur to him eventually.  “Do we have to share it?”

“Technically, no-”

“Dean,” Sam’s appeared, in a hurry.  “Crowley’s here for the stone.  Library.”

“Great.”  Dean’s demeanour drops instantly.  “You mind staying here?  I mean, I know-”

“No, it’s cool,” you shrug.  “Simpler.  Unless he wants to see I’m not being tricky.”

“H-yeah, well.  Don’t bring the pie, if he calls.”  Dean’s at the door when he thinks to ask, “Hey, why’d you bake?”

You shrug again, “Just something nice for you.  I’ll be in my room.”

Dean heads for the library, tucking that thought away for later.

…  …

“So what have you got for us in return?” Sam demands, putting the rock on the table between them.

“What happened to the gift of giving?  It’s not like it was terribly hard for you to lift it.”  Crowley says it all like the first steps in a dance.

“C’mon Crowley, you know we’re going to expect to trade.”  Sam’s pretty bored of the routine.  “And there’s gotta be a reason why you sent us and not a lackey.”

“Lackeys are notoriously dim, Sam.  Not as dim as you two can be, but in a literal, practical, what’s-this-button-do sort of way, they’re often nimrods.  So I sent some reliably effective thieves.”  Crowley shrugs, “Why should it be more complicated than that?”

“Because it always is,” groans Dean.  “Tell you what; give us the real reason you asked us, and we’ll see if that fact is enough to call it a trade.”

Crowley looks at Dean in a way that makes Dean wish he’d done this elsewhere, with a devil’s trap, and a weapon.  He feels the first spark of regret.  

“Sorry, Squirrel.  No can do.” Crowley slips his hands into his pockets and smiles calmly, unhurried, as if something expected will happen.

Dean glances at Sam and Sam glares back.  They can’t imagine what might be coming, but as Dean runs through the list of events in his mind, that closeness comes up on him again, thrilling up the back of his neck.  He looks at Sam to check if he sees anything before turning to scan the room, his space, and then glares back at Crowley right as he feels it become real.  

It’s a pressure, in the back of his legs and the planes of his back, seeping into his flesh.

“No! NO!  Crowley!  What are you doing to me?!  _Stop it!”_  A foreign warmth fills Dean as though someone is stepping into his form, someone strong and old and big.  He feels them slip into his shape from back to front like Dean’s a full-bodied mask.  It makes him lean to try to escape it, stepping forward to pull away from the occupation, and he fights for as long as he can.

“Dean?  Dean!!  Sam steps up to his brother, unsure if he should touch him but needing some sign, some clue about how to intervene.

“Ah! Hh- Nu-” Dean reaches his chin, above water or through a curtain, trying to keep his mouth his own, but the invader leans, too– pleased, ready –and the image of you smiling at him, timeless and bright, makes Dean crane his neck to see Sam.  “Y/N-” he gasps, and his eyes close.

Deans wraps up around himself, palms rubbing rough over his arms as he growls, and he drives fingertips over his scalp as if someone could be furrowed out.

 _I can break him,_  says a voice.  _I can break your brother._

Slowly, reluctantly, Dean quiets and lets him take over, and Sam watches wide-eyed as his brother stands tall and looks at Crowley with a polite, arrogant smile.  “Our deal is filled?”

“I’m happy if you are.”

Sam gapes between them, pointing at Crowley as he steps back. “What did you do?  Is he possessed?”

“Only for a while.”  Crowley nods at Dean and, with the tomb rock now in his hands, disappears.

Sam is left with his non-brother, defenceless but for his thoughts.  “Christo,” he tries, sharp and breathless.

“Hm.  Not that,” he says.  “You’ll have to wait here.”  Dean’s arms move wide, using an unseen force to swipe several swords from the wall.  Sam is bustled into a shape, and he’s shocked, loud, fighting in any direction, but the swords are slowly bent around his arms and legs and he gulps and cries out at the pain and threat of it as he falls.

Dean walks over to Sam caught on the ground, and Sam tries to reach him.  “Dean!  Come on! Fight, Dean!  You can take him!”

“He is a very good fighter,” says the possessor.  “But he won’t resist for long.  Don’t worry, Sam.  It’s all for love.”

 _“Get out!”_ The words burst out of him as he realises the implications.  Y/N.  Dean loves her, Sam’s sure.  Who else could be implied.  “Get out of him and leave her alone!”

Sam is loud, too loud, and with an articulate finger, one last sword is held up to Sam’s throat, tip to the skin, before it’s snaking over his face, wrapping over his head, and fitted so snugly over his profile that Sam can’t open his mouth to call.  The handle leans against his chest.

“He’s sorry.”  Dean stands and walks towards the bedrooms.

…  …

You sit at your desk, running a fingernail over an old notch in the wood.  You’ve tidied and sorted, folded and straightened.  You just want word that the deal with Crowley worked out.

So when there’s a neat knock on the door you answer, “Yep!” before it’s done, and Dean pops his head in.  

“Hey.”

“Hey.  How d’you go? I thought I heard some yelling.”

“All good.  Just tired of Crowley’s rubbish.  He traded it for a nice god-killing dagger.” Dean smiles, the topic apparently over and some other thought crosses his mind.  He leans against the doorway and looks you up and down, his eyes heavy with it and a smile somewhere behind it all.

“That’s great,” you say. “Also, why are you lookin’ at me funny.” You squint playfully, always handy with the goof-out before it gets too weird.  He hasn’t even hinted at something that even rhymes with mentioning that kiss, nothing at all.

“How about we go for a drive,” he offers, standing straight.  “Just you and me.”

“Sure.  Guess I got nothin’ else on.”  You try not to look at anything in particular, covering it with finding your jacket.  “What’s Sam up to?”

“Archiving that dagger, I think.”

“Of course.”

Down the corridor, Dean walks beside you, glancing at you there in the corner of his eye.  A few times you look up to see if he’s looking at you.  He is, and each time, he smiles and goes back to watching his feet.  

You try not to jump ahead about what purpose this occasion might have.  You and Dean have shared time together, talked about how hunts have gone, or about people, sometimes how you feel, but it’s often ended with an offer of watching a movie or some other incidental activity to help debrief.  It’s never something for nothing.  You feel as though if he wanted to do something about that encounter at the fridge, a Drive In The Car would be a bit grand.  Something else, you decide, must be up.

Dean opens the car door, offers his hand, and you frown at the flourishes.  “Dork.”

His smirk pulls sideways, like that’s something he likes about you.

Behind the wheel, he pulls out of the garage and heads for the open road, enjoying the feel of the car and the view.

…  …

Dean has quit fighting for the moment, though there’s no point hiding his fury.  He’s sure whoever this is - this strong, strange spirit - has picked up on Dean’s feelings for Y/N.  He felt the guy drink in the way Y/N looked at Dean, and the fear Dean showed made him chuckle. But Dean’s trying not to care about that right now.  

Right now, the guy’s driving the Impala with Y/N inside it.  Dean’s not doing anything to antagonise someone with this much in his hands.  And he’s certainly not going to try and trick him out of his attention for Y/N, because who knows how much that’ll tempt or annoy him.  Dean doesn’t know what his plans are, so he hasn’t picked an angle.  He’s just glad he can supervise for the moment and hopes, when it comes to it, he has enough strength to take control again.

…  …

“What’s got you so ponderous?” you wonder.  “You’re all glowing about the Joys of Life or something.  Did Crowley give you a hippie curse?”

Dean huffs at that, squints a little at the idea, but skips replying.  “If we were going to spend some time, just the two of us, where would you like to spend it?”

“Uuuuhdunno.  Don’t mind really.” You look out at the road and think of what is nearby that’s better than average.… “Not sure I really care what else there is to look at.”  Yyyyyikes what did you just say?  “Not if there’s a conversation to focus on. I’d rather give you my attention.”  You clear your throat, pretty confident that covered it.

“That’s good to know.”

More miles pass and, after you’ve lost time staring at the horizon, Dean swings the car down a dirt road and weaves through the hills.  After a while he pulls into a small car park surrounded by picturesque beech forest, and turns to you before getting out.  “How ‘bout I grab a blanket and show you a pretty spot?”

Blankets and vistas?  With Dean?  “Are you going to shove me off a cliff?”

“Ha! No, Y/N!” He is entertained by that.  “Have you been here before?”

“Nope.”

“Let me show you.”

You watch Dean get out of the car and start to think.  His behaviour sure is a little odd.  But maybe he has something in particular to say, something completely unrelated to that kiss.  Anyway, it’s not as if you’re going to turn down some time alone with him.

So down the path he leads, over fallen trees and around overgrown roots.  He takes your hand to help you up boulderish steps and doesn’t let it go.  Your heart tries not to look into it, but then you know he’s no fool.  He knows what gestures mean.  You wonder more what all this ceremony could lead to.

Soon the path clears into an open patch, a view of the valley to the south and a sharp drop into a river to the east and north.  Some way further upstream, the river falls into the crack in the valley, down into the white rolling noise below, and flows out into the acres ahead, along between the hills.  It’s nearly autumn and leaves are beginning to turn yellow, dirty beige, and orange.  It’s a beautiful view.

“Okay, I’m suspicious.  There’s a cliff.” You put your hands on your hips and step back from the edge so that the noise of the whitewater slips into the background.  “I specifically asked you if you were going to push me off a cliff and this?  It’s suspicious.  I was right to peer,” you decide, and peer at him again for good measure.

Dean laughs again, leaning back.  His sits on the blanket in the clearing and waits for you to join him.  So you do, angling yourself toward the valley view so you can pretend you don’t notice his attention.  It’s nice, though.

“Crowley asked where you were,” he reports, and begins a lie. You turn to him some, to listen.  “He said he thought he’d be dealing with all of us, and wanted you there.  We told him to… go fuck himself.”

That’s a bit out of the blue:  Crowley’s never shown a specific interest in you before. “Did he say why he wanted me there?”

“He wanted you.”  Dean looks at you significantly, factually.  “He said if he got you and the stone, he’d leave without breaking anything,” says Dean.  “Or anyone.”

“What? Why the fuck would he want me?” you scowl.  “I’m useless.  I mean, not  _useless_.  But I’m not special, you know, I-”

“He  _wants_  you, Y/N.”  Dean looks at you, slips his gaze over your lips and hair, and down your legs.  He breathes you all in and says, “He wants you.  And I won’t let him have you.”

The way he looks at you, just helps himself, it’s a little electrifying.  You can’t watch it for long, lest it tease you.  “Oh.  Well, thanks,” you reply.  “Though I won’t let him have me either.”

After a moment, Dean looks out at the view, too, thinking of his next words.…   “Who could have you?” he asks, and gazes at you for the answer.

You open your mouth as if to speak but you find yourself shocked because the answer should be obvious. For a long time now, it’s been him, yet the words won’t come, your whole mind confused as to why he isn’t sure, why he’s asking instead of discussing, or even making a move.  You kissed him - who else would you want to be had by?! The only reason you can think of is that he regrets it.

So for seconds you try to answer generically– pick a type, or a person, or a context that begins to answer that –but Dean looks at you so persistently, you lose your nerve.  “Yyyyyeah, I’m gonna plead the 5th on that.”

A smile, or a smirk, plays on his lips, and he’s so quiet and steady, so controlled, you’re starting to twitch from all the ticks and tells he’s not giving, all that easy talk you usually have when he’s calm.  And the lack of acknowledging that kiss, it’s like an alarm bell that  _should_  be ringing.

Then it’s as though you’ve absorbed what’s missing in him and you can’t keep still with it all: You get up to walk to the edge of the clearing to look at the carpet of trees.

It’s only 5 or 6 steps away, but you rush there, wrapping your arms around your waist before changing your mind and shoving your fists into your pockets.  Your sensibilities tell you he’s brought you here to say something significant.  

Every other instinct says something’s not right.

“You do know someone, Y/N,” he says, but you can’t get yourself to turn around and watch him talk like this.  “I would have you, like that, if you wanted.”

When you turn back, Dean’s standing on the blanket, tall with significance.  It still feels strange.  “I’ve never told you I love you,” he says.  Then he coughs, catches it, blinks it back and puts a hand on his belly, to still himself with a swallow and a breath.  “I should’ve told you sooner.  I love you, Y/N.”

Dean stands there, rubbing his fingertips against his thumb, swallowing in hope, and rigid with vulnerability.

Maybe he’s never said this to anyone.  Maybe he’s not sure how it should go, or what people do.  They take the girl to a pretty place right?  They say nice things and take it slow, make sure she’s ready to believe them.  Right?

You walk back to him, desperate to find the delicate words that won’t shoot him down yet will prompt something more familiar, more plain, from him.

But as you approach, he lunges forward to you, his big form pulling you up short and crowding around you.  “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he pleads. “I don’t know how to do this.  I’m being unusual and I only want to stop lying.”  He’s all over you, palms sliding over your hair, down your cheeks, almost hugging you as he comes up close so quickly, his tone full of apology.  “I don’t mean to be so awkward.  I just want to tell you how I feel and I’m playing it poorly.”

You look around his shirt, the crease and fill of it where his chest rises and falls, the angles of his chin and neck being all you can see while you take in his words and try to think straight in the face of such intimacy.  

“I love you, Y/N.  I love you,” he promises.  He shepherds you close, palms grazing your shoulders, fingers tripping up your neck, and closer again as his body brushes against yours.  You feel gathered up, armless and blind, and his hands pull for short seconds, pressing light and quick, guiding you closer as his nose follows yours.  When you don’t look up he kisses your forehead, short and hopeful, plucking sweetness that distracts you to moan.  “Do you love me, Y/N?” he whispers.  “Could the woman you are love me, too?”

The question breaks through. “Of course I could Dean.”   _You can be loved_ , you think.  _You deserve love._  You look up to show him how you mean it, but he’s there already, his lips on yours and holding your head in both hands.

It’s every kiss you’ve ever imagined, layered into one, urgent and full, needy and hot, and you give into it entirely for the luck of the moment. You take every sensation, record each close breath, each break of voice, and then the feeling of his tongue in your mouth makes every inch of skin light up.

Then it stops, Dean’s head snapping up like a rope yanked it back.  He blinks long, holds his breath and then it’s gone.

“Are you oka-”

“I love you, Y/N,” he moans and mashes his mouth onto yours.  “Let me show you.”

Dean pulls your waist into him, hauling your weight into his so that when he bends over, kneeling on the blanket, he takes you with him.  Suddenly it’s all real, his thighs brushing against yours, his torso flush and hot, and he’s guiding you backwards.

He keeps kissing you, too, noisily, each breath a hum, determined and hard, and you wish you knew why this is making him so intense, why he wants to rush.  Then he starts pulling up your t-shirt, pulls it right up, lifting your elbows, but you resist, halfway to the blanket and catch yourself with a hand behind you. “Wait, Dean!  Here?”  He pulls back, puffing and stiff.  “We don’t have to do this here.  There’s privacy at the bunker.”

“I want you now, Y/N.”  The words are pushed out of him, as though he can speak while he holds his breath, and he opens and closes an empty fist.  “I’ve waited too long.”

…  …

Y/N L/N.

Hera felt her temple’s stone move.  Zeus’s too.  Initially, when she found the disturbance, she watched from a distance and wasn’t worried about hunters poking at her things.  She left it alone, until she saw Zeus follow them back, saw him tethered to that handsome man.  And then, when her gut said to be patient while she saw Zeus driving out of here in his newest disguise, with Y/N L/N at his side, the familiar flavours of jealousy and wrath settled in her and, like a habit, she followed her unfaithful husband.

She wondered if Zeus was truly unaware of her presence.  Was he really this lazy?  This reckless?  Does he not care anymore what he does to her? How will he try to protect this one? What will come of it?

Hera stood in the trees and listened to him use that man to draw Y/N in, and she could see the dilemma in the woman’s eyes.  She recognised Y/N’s apprehension, her reluctance to believe that he meant what she’d always wanted to hear.

If Y/N had done as she should have in the first place, Hera felt, this wouldn’t be happening anyway.  She should’ve secured that man, that Dean Winchester, and temptation would’ve passed Zeus by.  That girl squandered her beauty every day, and now Hera’s husband has been tempted by it, drawn to it, and here he is, throwing his seed in any open furrow.  Again.

Hera has heard enough.

…  …

Dean dives onto your mouth, knocking you back and although you grunt at the awkwardness, you still sigh into his weight upon you, mind and body both distracted beyond comprehension.  He smells so familiar, close and warm, and the sounds of him are new, exhilarating - his hand over your ear, breath flowing over skin, wet noises from your mouths, and the  _taste_.  

He’s surging, heavy and surrounding, until he starts crawling down, pushing up the hem again to kiss and taste your belly.  “So beautiful, Y/N.  So strong, so worthy.” He pushes your shirt beyond your bra and drags his fingers back down over your skin to hook them into the cup, your breasts spilling free.  “Let me have you, Y/N?” he pleads breathlessly.  He looks at you all, his legs and body undulating with thoughts of what’s next, working his way closer, heavier, and moving you around, too, hooking your knee around himself and rocking you both. “Please, I’ve wanted you so long.” Dean shoves his hand under your waist so he can lean on his elbow and hug you close, then wraps a hand around the back of your neck as he licks your nipple into his mouth.  Your hands fly to his hair, grabbing his head and you inhale hard, filling yourself with air so fast you can only take in the smallest gasp more at the sensation that comes.

Something, something other, is here, rippling over your scalp.

Dean moves down, yanking on your jeans and thumbing the button free, tugging waistbands again to kiss and mouth at your hip, your lower belly, and his chin starts to feel your hair as it’s revealed.

“Wai- Dean,” you sigh, unable to handle him as well as gauge what else is happening. “Dean?”

He hums and ravages you, making you buckle up into the feeling of it, but you can’t say more than his name.  The cool sensation it still coming, now past your head, slipping over you, through you, filling your body so much you can smell something different - lilies? - and a bitter taste of hate seeps into your mouth.

Your body is jostled about by Dean’s attention and his effort to get your snug jeans out of the way so he can see you, get to what he wants, but you stare at the sky and try to see past what you can feel, and what you can hear.

_Isn’t he wonderful?_

You go to grab Dean and pull him up to talk to him, but your arms won’t do it:  They’re not yours.  Instead they spider over his head and coax him closer and someone starts to sigh and moan with want.

You think you shut your eyes, you think you shake your head, but you don’t, you haven’t.  It’s thrust back, wanton and loud, as you arch up against Dean’s face.

The way Dean’s fit himself between your legs has kept him from revealing too much - the stretched waistband bites into your lower hips - but he’s still pressing you to his face with both hands on your ass.  “Oh, my love, can I see you?”

“Of course you can,” What the fuck? You think a _No!_ and feel a visceral protest inside, and for a moment your shoulder bucks off the ground.  “Have me.  Devour me.”

 _What the fuck._  It’s a lucid thought, crowded by questions and ideas for what the hell is going on, and surrounded by the spiteful laughter of someone else.   _Get out,_  you think, feeling your anger heat your bones.   _Get the hell out of me._

_But you’re so pretty, Y/N.  He wants you.  And you want him, too, I can tell.  Of course you do._

You’re trying to get your hands to open and push, not pull and hold, but there’s so much everywhere you’ve no idea how much difference you’re making.  Every jolt and shift seems to blend in with what’s being done to you, or maybe you’re not doing anything at all.

_Just lay back and enjoy him.  He’s a god.  He can have us both._

Of all the things you can control, your jaw seems to have become yours for a moment, clenched and tight, then you feel Dean’s fingers tuck past your underwear and slip through your curls.  “AaaAH!” It’s half your surprise and protest, half her elation.   _“Dean!”_

He groans darkly, something deeper and more determined than before, but he doesn’t answer, just keeps edging, deeper, watching you gape at the sky, and he starts to get his fingertips wet, before he jolts sideways, losing his place.

“What is it?” She takes control of you so easily, even when you thought you had a hold on yourself.  “Am I too much for you? But you sought me out for so long?”

Then Dean pauses.  His puffing becomes apparent as he places a hand on the blanket beside your hip and he hinges up, trapping you with a scrutinous gaze while he considers your words.  

Slowly he shifts, moves over you, blocking out the sun, and settles his elbows either side of your shoulders, his hips wedging your legs apart.

Possessive fingers drag over your scalp and thread through your hair while you try to calm your breathing.  You just want some sign from your body that you can still drive it, and some sign from Dean that he can see what’s happening to you, or that he’s there at all because that face, _that face is surely not his_.  You can’t tell if he’s overcome with lust, or deciding how to snap your neck, and you’re trying to think of words that exorcise non-demons.

“What is it?” His lips tremble as if to hide a sneer.  “What do you think I’ve sought in you?”

“M-my strength,” she says, fighting to keep you still.  “My beauty.”

Slowly his fingers stop stroking and start holding.  They become firm, spreading broadly over your head, then tight.  He tips his gaze to look into your eyes, and shifts your skull around as if to see who’s in there…

“Hera.”

A vicious smile booms its way across your face, cold and tight, and she laughs.  You find there’s a gap, too, on the end of the inhale, when you can kind of tug your muscles free of her grip.  It makes her cough and grunt a moment.  “Zeus.  My brother.  My husband,” she says. “My curse.”

“Oh, Hera.  You know I love you,” he murmurs.  “You know.  I have so much love.”

“For everyone.  As always.”

“For you first.”  One of his hands lets go of your head and pats your hair down again, soothing you in his hold.  “And last.  Will you let this one go?”

“No!” she spits, and all her anger, from centuries of infidelity, stings heat into your cheeks.  “Why should I?  Another whore you’ve taken?  Will you father her child, too?”

“It’s been such a long time,” he says, like this is the first second-chance he’s ever had, and turns his face all woeful and wanting.  You’ve never seen Dean try such a thing, and it’s so peculiar.  “I just thought earth could do with another titan.  You don’t agree?  And I chose carefully, too, my love.  These are fighters.  Hunters.  The clouds told me of how monsters flee from them.  They do good, and their child, a child of mine, could be great.  Don’t you think?”

“What is the name,” she snears, “of your  _last_  child?”

 _Wow.  That got him_.  You hear her laugh at your realisation, like his, that he’s been exposed as a complete fuckboy.  She twists with delight at his being caught.

“Well, in that case,” he says with a cocky smile, recovering admirably, “let us have them together.”  He levels his gaze at you, at her, and offers, “We can have each other, and them.”

She hesitates inside you, and you squirm.

“He loves her, you know.”  

 _Oh no, **no**. _ You seem to spin inside, trying to turn away from what could be lies, or worst still, truths you shouldn’t hear.  “I’ve never met it before.  It’s deep, and unrequited.”

“Unrequited?” she breathes.

“Oh yes, the best kind.  He trusts her with his life, and fears her rejection still.”

“Hmm.”  You feel Hera lean at the idea, the drama, doleful of never having had that herself, and you scramble to think of something that will make her feel better, or not want it.  _He’s lying,_  you tell her.   _Dean is a man of action; if he wanted me, he’d have made me his._  You don’t know what the hell you’re trying but it’s better than silence.

“He can have her and I can have you,” Zeus coos, nosing around your cheek and trickling kisses at your neck.  “I’ve missed you so much, my love.”

 _You said that to her, too,_  thinks Hera.

“Does she want him?” Zeus wonders.  “Does she love him anywhere near as much as he loves her? It wasn’t hard to bring her to this place.”

“Oh, she does,” Hera declares, hungry to meddle and torture you both.  “And she hates this.  You in him, and me here.  She  _loathes_  it.”

Zeus lifts his head, calm and arrogant, and she nods your head with glee.  

“Shall we then?”

Giggles fill your body, and her voice bounces around inside.   _You don’t know if he’s lying!  You don’t know if he loves you or not! He might be repulsed! He might be crying for more!  I’ll give you to him, too! I’ll give him everything he asks for!!_

Zeus levels a dark, leering gaze, something made from aeons of entitlement, as though he might finally have some fun, and he breaks your bra with his mind.  Hera squeals at it, grabbing and pulling on him with your hands, tugging up Dean’s shirt to feel more.  “Oh, isn’t he good,” she sighs, feeling his muscles and skin, pulling his chest onto you and thumbing over his cheekbones.  “Like a hero.”

“Mmm, I chose well, yes?”  Zeus leans back and tucks the fingers of both hands into the waistbands again, kneeling up to give them a good jerk, but instead, his arms push and he grunts at it, rocking forward and blinking in surprise.

“Zeus?” Hera checks.

He glares at you, stares well beyond your eyes as he feels around inside at whatever is happening, then frowns hard and twists his head to the side.  With one hand, he splays his fingers at the air and your t-shirt is ripped apart.

“A-ha!” Hera curls back, thumping you on the ground as she bucks up for him and wraps her arms around Dean’s head to help bury it into your cleavage.  Zeus revels in it, moaning deep, and she laughs at it all.

…  …

 _Let her have what she craves,_  says Zeus.  

Dean’s proving stronger than he expected, resisting the possession and stealing moments of control.  So Zeus is making a good go of trying to get him on side for what he wants so much.  He hadn’t expected Dean to reject the opportunity so wholly.  Maybe times have changed, he thinks, tucking his face under your bust again.

 _What you have is impressive enough, and she’ll be grateful_ , he soothes.   _She’ll want you again._

 _Is that all?_ Dean scoffs, and in the back of his mind Zeus sees Dean’s disgust at yet another layer to Zeus’ selfishness, how much he wants to get rather than give.  

There’s the image of thighs, folds, glistening and blushed, and some satisfied, proud feeling of having given, something well attended to. It’s barely a quarter-second of memory, but Zeus feels Dean’s desire for that, too, and how generous it is.  _Yes, let’s give her that!_  Zeus is delighted and starts to look at what’s there under his chest.

With his nose in the curls, Dean struggles to think clearly about how to get out of this.  He’s been driving his heels into the dirt since Zeus started kissing you, but so little of it is working.  He’s furious for you, radiating inside at the breach of privacy, and he so desperately doesn’t want this to be the first time he encounters you like this.  But Hera has your fingers driving down his scalp and tugging his hair, and Zeus is pulling your pants all the way down and moaning over what’s before him, almost laughing at his luck at having two women at once.

So Dean steels himself into the moment and decides, if this is how it has to be today, then it’s just going to be one of those things to get through, and he’ll look after you as much as he can along the way.

“Oh, Zeus!” Hera gulps, “You’ve never-  Oh,  _Zeus!”_

The quickest of hesitations flickers somewhere inside Dean and he seizes the hint.  _You’ve never gone down on your wife?!_

Zeus doesn’t answer.

 _Move the fuck aside, asshole._ Dean’s determined now, and although he can’t move his legs, nor much more than a hand and his head and neck, he can do this and, by Venus’ clam, he will do this.

…  …

_Oh! By the Sun! OH!_

Hera can’t focus enough to take it all in, but whatever is happening between your legs is making her lose it.  She’s gasping inside and out, grasping and gaping, blinking at the stormy sky like there’s some delicate lighting forking her so good, but it’s just Dean’s mouth and fingers, under Zeus’ control, making her feel fizzle and sigh.

 _Gods are so fucking stupid,_ you think, but Hera doesn’t care.  It’s good, you’ll admit, quite good, but you figure both you and he are distracted. Surely Dean’s receptive enough, though, astute enough to know-

You sit back for a minute and watch.  The action, you notice, is delicate, attentive.  It shuttles around a bit, though, starting something new before going back to what was working.  It’s as though Zeus is trying to show off, but then listens to the noises Hera makes - her groaning and gasps, when she grabs and squeaks - and thinks better of it.

Somehow, amongst it all, you realise that Dean and Zeus are fighting over how to do this task, and between her surprise and his inconsistency, you become rather confident that Zeus has never given head to Hera at all.

…  …

_You ass, knock it off._

_Stop trying to lead, Dean.  Your prowess is endearing but I’m a god, remember? I know what I’m doing. I’ve fathered over a hundre-_

_You are Fucking Disgusting!_ Even in his mind Dean’s voice cracks _.  You’re not even listening to her.  That-  Jesus, do that!  She just pulled hair outta my head to get- just.  FUCK.  FINGERS AND TONGUE, TOGETHER, YOU GOD DAMNED DICKHEAD._

_Talk. To me.  Like that.  Again.  And I’ll turn you.  Into.  A camel._

_Yeah? You know they come with two humps right?_

…  …

 _It’s so good, isn’t it?_  He hasn’t even really started with this fingers, but his mouth, that damn tongue working against you like every lie is being undone.  It’s taking everything you’ve got to not think, ‘Oh, God’.

_Oh, yes.  YES.  Rrrrapture!!_

_I love this.  Dean’s so good at it._  You guess.  You hope.  It doesn’t matter.  You talk to her like a girlfriend. It feels good for you, too, but even amongst the crowded intrusion, the foreign presence of Zeus, it feels like there’s some part of Dean looking after that small part of you.  You have faith.   _Dean’s so generous.  Makes me come like a geyser with this.  Every time._

Hera opens her eyes, doesn’t even see the sky broil with Zeus’ hedonism, but she does let you indicate to her what it will take to get your body there and she follows your hints like they’re crumbs of cake.  You ask her to ease off a little, and she does, laying back, slackening, and everything under Dean’s face starts to not just buzz with pleasure but light up, sparkle.  Hera drops your jaw and leans back to breathe deep and feel it.

_Zeus must love you so much, to do this._

Hera swallows and you feel tension stretch across your stomach, just for a moment, before Dean sucks on your clit and she crumples, “Guh!” into the sensation.  In her bucking, you suggest she look down, and there you see the curl of Dean’s brow, knowing and tenacious, and you hope with everything that he saw you, too, because in that nanosecond, all your blood recognised him and knew what he was thinking: Fuck them.

Hera is too occupied to reply to you.  She’s started pulling on the back of Dean’s head like he can tongue-fuck her throat from there.  And the more distracted she becomes, the more you can control yourself.   _What a penitent man,_  you think, so dry in your sarcasm that Hera doesn’t pick it up.  “A good, penitent man,” she agrees.  You drag two fingers along the edge of his jaw.

…  …

Dean lies to Zeus.   _Lemme do this_ , he says.   _If you’re gonna force us into it, at least let me do what I know her body likes._

He feels Zeus consider it, and he keeps himself steady, not even acknowledging how easily the God ate it up.

Slowly Dean feels the resistance give some, and he reaches forward with his fingers, every inch fought for, quite sure that you’d sent him some sort of sign with that gesture on his chin, that talk of penitence.  Two long digits wind their way into you-

 _I’ve done this_ , Zeus snips.   _There’s nothing you can teach me. I-_

_I’m fucking her, not you.  Shut up._

_When you’ve had your fun, Hunter, you’re going away._

…  …

“OOOHZooOOOS!!”

She’s still there, but it feels so wonderful, that tumbling run into the orgasm, you’re not sure it won’t throw her clear of your body altogether.  In the back of your mind, where she’s not and only you are, you imagine Dean inside himself, focusing on you, like you’re whispering through a tunnel beneath the quaking temples.  And it is as though he can read your mind.  

Then he tilts things, focusing and fastening, it doesn’t matter whether it’s you or Hera moving your body, you’re of the same mind on this.  It’s wonderful, perfect, and your legs are trembling from their core, everything shifting a whole tone as your orgasm flares out and you breathe fast and deep and just  _come_.

…  …

Zeus is quiet.  Remarkably quiet.

He kisses around your lower belly, he and Dean watching your body come down.  Dean can see, in the way your hands grab and flounder, you don’t have yourself back yet, but you’ve got some purchase.  He watches with hope.

Zeus watches with dread.

… _Have you seriously never made your wife come on your tongue and fingers before?_

Zeus is quiet.

_Asshole._

…  …

You puff through your nose and squirm, grabbing onto you don’t know what.  You can hear her bittersweet whimpers but can only guess at why she doesn’t feel the triumph you expected.

Still flailing in corporeal lust, Hera is lost in her feelings and you harness the moment.  She lets you pull a shred of shirt across yourself and you say  “Of course, you had to take him to do that.”  The words spill out, spiteful and hot.  You clamp your mouth shut, breathe with her, and wait.

Slowly, Zeus leans up and looks at you.  “I do like to use disguises,” he admits, and has the decency to help pull your jeans and panties up.  “It’s easier.  More fun, yes?  He took my guidance well.”

 _Has Zeus done that before?_  you ask her, but she won’t reply.  The penny drops and, once she understands you know and she realises your feeling for her isn’t pity but indignation, a decidedly spiteful flavour fills your mouth.

“Mm.”  You manage to shrug one shoulder, and bite your jaw still.

A big part of her is scratching inside, wanting control again, but she’s thirsty for provocation, too, and making him doubt his prowess is such a tempting punishment.  You feel like you’re looking at her inside yourself, a sideways glance with a cheeky eyebrow.  She loosens her hold, just a smidge more, enough for you to get up on your elbows.  “She wouldn’t have had you as you are though, your true self.”

“I’m a God, Hera.  She’d have seen my worthiness.”

This time Hera sits back, actually wanting to see what cutting thing you’ll say.  You try to craft it in her style:  “She’s been looking at  _his_ worthiness for months, a worthiness he’s made, not one he was given, and she’s resisted.  Who are you?  Some old, irrelevant god.  What have you ever done that’s matched him?”

Inside you, Hera’s breath sounds sucked through teeth and the highest peep makes you blink and pull your shoulders up, your hot cheeks stinging.   _Too far?_

Dean gets on all fours, his knuckles dinting the blanket beside your hips, and the sky darkens behind him.  “Rrrrrr- _I AM A GOD OF GODS_ ,” he roars, the heat of his breath dampening your face.  Shadows disappear as thunder tumbles over the earth.  “I GIVE THIS WORLD LIFE.”

His size and all, snarling darkness, makes you recoil, but you persist.  “Do you?  All of it?  Who lets you?” Hera bites your own lip.  “Another, bigger, stronger god.  You’re just playing in his sandpit.”

 _He’ll have you with your lover’s body,_  whispers Hera, like a pyromaniac flicking the flame, _he’ll have you, and make you with child, and I’ll turn you both into goats!_

Your heart starts to thump now, overtaking any speed its had before.  Dean glowering over you would be scary enough, but Dean occupied by a wrathful god is a whole other level.  He leans into his shoulders, digs into the ground beneath you and flushes a full shade of red.  That’s when you see the little ticks, his toe catching on the ground, a knee pulling as if to crouch, a short twitch of the head.  You can only hope the fury works him up enough for Dean to get a proper hold of his own, hopefully before you’re struck by lightning.

“You ve-engeful wench!” he growls, each word fought for, his teeth wet and biting before you.  “You  ** _make her say lies!”_**

“No!” peeps Hera, and you let her talk.  “No, my love! That was her!  She’s tricking you!”

“Get out of her.”  He snarls it through Dean’s twisting lips, spit falling onto your neck, and he snatches your throat so tightly, so wholly, you both grab his wrist to strain against the hold.  He thumps you back to the blanket.  “Get home,” he growls again, leaning over so that Dean is all you can see. “Go to our bed.  Wait for me.  I’ll show you  _whose god I am.”_

A shudder runs through you, wracking your body inside his grip and it’s as though she’s shaken free, almost thrown up into the sky as the strength leaves Dean’s fingers to keep hold of Hera flying to wherever it is Zeus means.

…  …

Dean’s hands rest against the blanket, beside your shoulders, and he leans his head on your chest.  You puff, and he puffs, and you wonder if you’ll cry.

“Ho, Jesus,” he pants.  “You okay?”

“Hm.”

“I’m sweating. You okay?”  Slack and gentle, he picks up the ripped edges of your shirt and re-wraps them over your chest before he opens his eyes.  You clutch it closed for him.  Then he leans over you, slow from exertion, carefully tilting your chin to inspect your neck, tsking at the bruises starting to form.

“I’m okay,” you croak.

He looks so sorry, puffing and sad, blinking at the marks left by his hand.

“Really, I’m okay.”  You put a hand on his arm, your forearm flush with his as he leans above you, and you try to soften your gaze into something forgiving, something about  _at least we’re both alive_.  It takes him a while to look at you properly and give into it.

“Didn’t the clearing-” he starts, “the whole, drive out to a shitty view thing?  Did that not give it away?”

Your smile is easy, rueful, and you groan and swallow past the ache.  

“I thought you knew me.”

“It did seem odd,” you admit.

He huffs and seems to want to sit back and give you space, but he’s not ready to declare you well enough, yet.  And he doesn’t really want to be that far away.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

“You did.”  You put your hand to his check then.  “It was Zeus, Dean.  You were amazing to do as much as you did.”

“You too- oh shit.  Sam.”

“What?!”

“We gotta get back.”  

He moves away, pulls you up and gathers the blanket, not looking at you while you do up your fly and ask “What did he do to him?”

“He’s probably okay,” he answers, only turning enough to encourage you to keep up, “but he might also be bleeding to death so we gotta run.”

So you do, literally, all the way back to the car, and break the rules to get home.  It seems urgency is all that required to smother any and all conversation about anything.

Sam isn’t bleeding badly, but it does get a little worse in the effort to free him.  Tin snips are barely strong enough, a small saw carefully placed works better.  You’re all quiet until he can talk, and that’s after you and Dean have jammed a leather strip around the tip of the sword that clamps Sam’s head, all three of you hinging it free with a foot against the bend at the forehead.

Sam talks as soon as he’s released.  “GAH!  Jesus fucking hell!  Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” you promise.  “Gimme your arms.”

Sam sits on the ground and lets you dress and cover the cuts above his elbows, glancing at the dark silence between the two of you.  “Who was it?”

“Zeus,” you say, managing to get some voice into your words. “And then Hera, in me.”

Sam does his blinkiest double-take ever.  “Are you okay? What the fuck? Do we need to make anti-God possession symbols, too?” He looks at Dean.

“Guess so.”  Dean shrugs and looks at his brother’s injuries, waiting until you’re done with your care.

And when you are, and it’s all patched up, you stand and announce you’re taking a shower and Dean lets you walk out of the there without a word.

“What did he do?” Sam demands, grabbing Dean’s sleeve for the answer.

“Nothin’ I can fix, Sam.  He told her I love her.  Hera told him she loves me.  It’s just-”  He lifts and drops his arms and how useless they are.  “It’s a mess and he did it-”  Dean bites his mouth closed before he choses words that won’t mislead Sam.  “It was about as close as it could get to something unforgivable. Probably was.”

“He hurt her?”

“Yeah.  I don’t know how much though.”

“Well, you go find out,” Sam tells him.  “You want me there?”

Dean looks at him, almost frowning but trying to think, too, about whether that would really help.  “No… I don’t think so.”

“Dean, if you can’t have that conversation with me around, you need to have it  _right_  now.”

“I can’t fix it Sam!  It was me!”

“No, it wasn’t, and she knows it.  Go remind her.”

Dean lifts his head, filling himself with every reason why you couldn’t possibly want to look at him again, before Sam cuts him off.  “You’re the  _only_  one who can fix this.”

…  …

_Knock-knock._

Last time it was Zeus, you realise, so you change everything to avoid tempting deja vu, or fate.  You open the door to Dean, washed and changed, and you pull him in by the wrist.

“I’m okay,” you start, assuring him earnestly.  He seems to wince at the roughness of your voice, so you tell him again, “I’m alright, okay?  Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he stammers.  “But I’m not-”

“I know, but hey-” You step up to him and slide your arms around his waist, pressing yourself to him with a full hug.  His arms wrap around your shoulders and he hugs you the hell back.  “I understand what happened.  I remember how you fought.”

“You saw that?”

“Yeah, I remember those moments. And listen-” With your hands on his back you look up at him so he can see you say this.  “It was gross, it was wrong, Zeus is a fuck-knuckle loony asshole, but I know you.  You don’t need to be forgiven but if you need my forgiveness you have it.  You had it the moment I understood what was happening.”

It takes a few moments, but Dean nods, unsure of what to say in reply.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you add, “even if some part of you liked it in some way.”

“Y/N,” he groans, “you know, I think you’re beautiful. And you know,  _now_ , that… you know what feelings go with that.”  His hands rub up and down your back once or twice and he looks at the way you two are right now, how you’re not letting him go.  “I just didn’t want all that to be the first time anything like that happened. I never want anything like that happening to you.”

“Me neither. Look, we didn’t have much choice, and we did our best.  You got my signs, didn’t you?  We know how each other works.  Honestly, in my mind, you and I were together, against them.  We’ve been through worse right?”

“Yeah, we have,” he nods in disappointment.  “Because that is how much our lives suck.”

You smile gently and pull on your hug to emphasis the point. “Then let’s not lose much time on it, okay?”

You’re careful, slow.  Soon Dean realises that you’re getting closer to him, leaning up with your eyes on his lips, reaching up, checking to see if he wants you to stop.  So, he reaches for you, too, and watches you kiss him on the lips.  It’s two heartbeats long, which isn’t much right now.

Dean watches you still, right where you left him, leaning halfway down to where you were.  He looks like he might smile any minute.

“That okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods minutely.

You’re so nervous, so excited, you almost choke on the whisper: “Close your eyes.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth tugs up, just a smidge before he readies himself again, doing as you asked.

You press your lips to his, soft and full, and hold it, hold it for at least a breath, until his hands pull, or his lips move, and then you both shift, easing your lips apart to kiss each other the way you’re supposed to do it, the way you want to.

And then it slides, so seamlessly, into perfection, all your thanks and forgiveness rolled into each other, Dean cupping your head to hold you near and your fingers creeping up, sliding up his neck and holding him close.  He leans over you and you drink each other in.  Whatever happened this afternoon is already another mile further away.

Dean pulls away, sucking in a great breath while he looks at you in his arms.  “Yyyyyeah,” he sighs.

“So much better,” you sigh, too, licking your lips for it.  “Fuck ‘em.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck ‘em.  I’m not going to let a stupid god ruin my first day with you.”  You pull Dean down to kiss him again, and suddenly it’s as though his body switched on.  Hands slide across your back, down your back, over your head, gathering your hair, none of him is still and you kiss and kiss and kiss.  

“Damn straight,” he murmurs, rolling his forehead against yours during the breather.

“You know last week? When you changed the tyre on Baby?”

“Mm.”

“I wanted you then.”

“You’ve wanted me for a week?” he asks.

“No, I wanted you on the hood of the car,” you clarify and press your mouth to his again, licking his lower lip into your bite.

“Hucking hell.” Dean frowns, his fingertips digging into your ribs.

“And um, a few weeks ago, I thought I saw you looking at my ass in the kitchen.”

“Probably,” he mumbles.  “Coulda been anywhere catching me do that.”

“Damn, I so wanted to lean over for you.”

“Fuck, Y/N.” Dean presses his kisses into your neck.  “I don’t think there’s been a thing you’ve done that hasn’t had me distracted, not for months.” He lifts his head to tell you, “I promise, if I think of something specific, I’ll tell you.”

“What about the pie I made?” you ask hopefully.

Dean’s smile is warm and new, not even your dreams have seen that smile.  The closeness floods you with delight.  “No, that… that almost ruined me.”  He teeters you backwards until your legs lean against the bed.  “That was the feeling Zeus found in me. He doesn’t have that.”

You inflate with happiness, hardly able to let it go.  “That’s the feeling I was going for.”

Dean grins, and nods, letting himself have a better look at you in his arms.

“Hey,” you start, patting his chest and running your fingers over his temple, “we don’t have to do anything today, but how about we get comfortable and fill an hour with some happy memories.”

Apparently, Dean’s grin can get bigger, and noddier, and he lets you go to hold hands as you kneel onto the bed and move back.  He follows you, laying down to face you, pleased as punch when you shuffle up close.

“Hey, who am I?” you say, and lean up on your elbow for it.  “Ahem.  ‘Ask me where I… keep my thunder.’”  You crack a suave smile and Dean bursts into laughter below you.  “‘They call me… the hurricane.’”

Dean wheezes into the back of his hand.  “Holy shit, they’re ridiculous.”

“What the hell was Chuck doing with all that?!”

“It was probably right after he created marijuana,” he laughs.  

“Also, I thought he could shape-shift.  Why didn’t he just do that?”

“Ah, he probably couldn’t figure out what to do with me, or with phones, or maybe he would’a smelled different, I dunno.” His fingers have found their place on your waist, and they like it.  “Come’ere.”

You let him guide you back down, and he rolls a bit so you can lean over him, a leg over one of his.  “She was so wild.”  Is this really the start of this kind of indulgence? Being this close and able to have him lay down and let you look at him?  All those lines and specks you know, all the pieces together. “The way she felt about him.  It was practically feral, all caught up with her pain and his… assholery.”

“Sounds like torture for her.”  Dean drags his fingertips down your neck, along your collarbone, where the bruises aren’t.  Somehow, being able to see his hands on your skin is all he wants, just the time to do it.  “Makes us seem so mainstream.  So easy.”

“Easy how?”

“Well… we’re simple, really.”  It’s as though he’s distracted into honesty.  “I never thought I’d want anyone as much as I want you.  And you seem to like me.  Just the two of us, wanting to be together when we can. So, let’s just do that.”

His hand finds its place again, down under your ribs, and your fingers rest high on his chest.  Soon, the only things about you that move are eyelashes and what thumps inside.

Somewhere out there, Zeus and Hera are screaming at each other through their toxic fate, probably ripping up seas and carving the skies.  But here you can see Dean’s blood throb under his skin, see the depth of his eyes, and listen to his skin on yours.  “I more than like you,” you tell him. “I more than like being with you. More than anyone, ever. I would more than like to be with you, while we can.”

His cheeks twitch, but he blinks it away, and looks down, nods like that’s an interesting fact.  But you smile, and it makes him look at you, too, surrendering to a grin that’s broad and bright, wakes him up, and he pulls you down for a kiss.

“Let’s just do that, then.”

“Yeah.”


End file.
